


One More For The Road

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Fluff and Angst, Love, M/M, Pining, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snektember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley decides to get drunk, Aziraphale worries whether snakes can process alcohol, and several confessions are made.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 139
Kudos: 623





	One More For The Road

**Author's Note:**

> For the Snektember prompt 'Drunk'

The text Crowley sends him is simply a random collection of letters.

Aziraphale spends a moment contemplating whether it's actually a language he's forgotten. Some of which do lack traditional vowel sounds. Then he considers whether it's some sort of strange pocket telephone slang that Crowley had either forgotten to mention or decided would be more entertaining to leave him to figure out himself.

He decides the answer to both of these is no.

Crowley could have sent it by accident, but it's only been a year since Heaven and Hell agreed to leave them be and it's always best to be safe.

With no restrictions on miracles any more he takes himself straight to the door of Crowley's flat, which opens obediently for him.

"Crowley?"

The only disturbance he can hear is a soft hissing, and the faint clink of glass against glass, which he finds himself following to Crowley's office. He's been visiting far more often lately, but to be honest it's still something of a thrill to be allowed to just walk into the flat. He still finds himself indulging in this new ability to join Crowley in his private spaces without the threat of being caught and punished.

Crowley's not in his usual position flung dramatically over the throne, nor is he tending to the plants. Instead, he's a sprawl of black and red scales on the desk, an untidy, looping pile draped around and half over what looks like half a glass of wine. His serpent head jerks up when he spots Aziraphale, but it still takes him three tries to hold himself upright, which seems to confirm that he's been drinking.

"Angel, you came." There's a gleeful, jerky swaying to go with the words, the wine glass rocking perilously back and forth. "Wasss jussst thinking about you."

"You've been drinking?" The added 'without me' comes across rather more strongly than Aziraphale expected. But, to be honest, he's more concerned why Crowley has been doing it in his serpent form. "Crowley, why on earth are you drinking like this?"

Crowley loses his grip on the rim of the glass, slips sideways and awkwardly flops his way back into the desk, hitting the stem on the way down and knocking the whole glass over. Which sends red wine spilling across the surface, into his answering machine and under his discarded sunglasses.

"Sshhhit - I'm ssso glad you came, Zir'phale. Did you know I was thinking 'bout you?" He sounds surprised, and strangely pleased.

"You sent me a text message on my pocket phone." Aziraphale holds up the device in question. "I was worried about you."

Crowley twists his head around until he can see his tail, which has apparently been dragging back and forth over his own phone.

"Eh, wasss'accident. Didn't mean it." He seems to think about it for a minute, tongue sliding and flapping against the glass of the table. "Prob'ly didn't mean it. Might've done it succu - succomshus - subconsuss - might've done it without thinking."

"Why are you drinking as a snake?" Aziraphale asks again, since the demon is clearly only listening to half of what he's saying. "Can you process alcohol in this form?"

"Dunno, maybe." Crowley's entire lower body appears to be upside down, that can't be comfortable.

Aziraphale reaches over for the bottle in the centre of the desk, which is still perhaps a third full.

"How have you even been pouring this?" Aziraphale frowns down at the messy length of him, which is currently trying to straighten out to better push himself in Aziraphale's direction.

Crowley bops the bottle with his snout with a grunt of effort. "Goesss in the glassss when I want it to."

Aziraphale lifts it, and there's a shaky hiss and an uncoordinated flail of motion.

"No, don't take it, that'sss my wine for sssupport and commissseration. I need it." Crowley curls himself clumsily round the bottle and pulls it back down to the table with a clank. Aziraphale's careful attempts to tug it free end in failure.

"Commiseration for what - Crowley, would you please return back to your normal form. I really don't think alcohol agrees with you like this."

"I don't know - sss'been making a lot of sssenssse." Crowley's tail jerks sideways, as if he'd briefly forgotten he wasn't currently in possession of limbs, and had attempted to gesture. A glass goes tumbling to the floor and Aziraphale absently waves and ends up holding it. He sets it down far enough away that Crowley won't dislodge it again with an errant thrash of his body.

"Crowley, please let me have the wine."

There's a moment of stillness, and then Crowley's body pulls inwards, in a way that feels like defeat.

"Don't have t'do everything you tell me to. I do what I want, m'demon remember." There's so much unexpected hurt to the word. Aziraphale sits himself down in the throne, so he can see him better. Because clearly something has upset the demon. Crowley has made it very clear that they're a team now, and if one of them had a problem they could come to the other.

"Crowley, did something happen? Is that why you've been drinking? Do you want to tell me about it?"

Crowley's silent for a long moment, he squeezes the bottle one last time and then relaxes and unwinds, leaving it to jiggle as he clumsily slithers his way towards Aziraphale. He shifts forward a little too far and Aziraphale catches a thick stretch of his scaled body before it slides all the way off the desk.

"If you don't want to tell me, would you like some company at least? You really don't seem to be drinking for fun."

"Ssss'been a year nearly," Crowley says, and there's a quiet sort of guilt to the edges of it.

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees. "I know we have dinner at the Ritz planned, but if you'd rather not, I understand. If you'd rather spend it doing something else? Or being in your own company - I'm afraid I just assumed."

"Nooooooo." Crowley's tongue thrashes in protest, at one point folding back and licking over his own head, much to his obvious frustration. "We c'n go to the Ritz. You like the Ritz. We'll have wine, I'll watch you eat cake - don't - don't cancel it. You have no idea how much I want to go with you - watch you - we'll have dinner, anniversssary and everything, sss'important."

Aziraphale rests his hand on the edge of the desk, braces a squirming coil so Crowley doesn't fall to the floor. He'd already slid through a patch of wine and is smearing and dripping it everywhere. Spots of it dot Aziraphale's trousers, which is unfortunate but this feels important. He's never seen Crowley in such a state.

"Crowley -"

"You're the best thing I have," Crowley tells him, soft and guilty, as if it's a terrible secret, something Hell would have dragged him back downstairs and punished him for. Which seems cruel when it hits Aziraphale so softly, but so directly.

"I'm rather fond of you too," he agrees, because it seems the simplest, gentlest way to return the sentiment. When it feels so bruising. "Which is why I'm trying to -"

The rattle of glasses and bottle cuts him off as Crowley unwinds all at once.

"No, you don't understand. You're the best thing, and you're good, and the way I feel is ssso much more than you know about, there's ssso much that's different, and messsy and - and human about it." Crowley hisses annoyance, spraying spots of wine across the desk. "I'm a - I'm a comfortable cardigan t'you, dependable, and old, and familiar. But that'sss not how you are for me." 

There's an angry flick of tail and Crowley's head rises, body pushing him upright until his yellow eyes are almost high enough to meet Aziraphale's. 

"It'sss like you're the ssstars to me. You're all of them, every one of them, roaring and making more star stuff, and throwing it out across th'universe." Crowley's scales flex as he awkwardly pushes himself forward, weaving drunkenly closer to Aziraphale. "And I'm happy being a cardigan - I am, angel, please underssstand that - I'll be a cardigan forever f'that's what you want, if you need me to - to be that for you. It's jussst sssometimes I remember that I'm a cardigan - sssometimes I have to remind myself."

Crowley's tail has been slowly leaving the table through his speech, and this time when Aziraphale catches him he doesn't place him back on the desk, instead he carefully lifts him and settles him against the warmth of his waistcoat. Crowley immediately goes limp, as if he can slither straight off Aziraphale's lap in protest at the handsy treatment. But a cold, drunk snake is no match for an angel. He simply gathers the demon into a loose pile, feels the shocked clenching when the scales of his belly meet the warmth of his hands, the hiss of surprise when Aziraphale's fingers close and hold on. Crowley wriggles for a moment, then goes limp again, but this time in furious, drunken defeat.

"You are Betelgeuse," Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley makes a confused, muffled noise against his shirt.

Aziraphale ignores it and continues. "You are Vega, and Procyon, and Rigel, and Arcturus."

Crowley stiffens and then abruptly curls into himself.

"Aziraphale." The word is soft and confused, as if the demon doesn't know what to do with what he's hearing.

"You are Alpha Centauri A and B. You are The Pleiades. You are Canopus and Pollux and Antares."

Aziraphale can feel the slow squirm of scales through his fingers, until Crowley's head nudges and then presses cold and pleading underneath his chin. "I'm not," he says, and there's a wavering thread of disbelief in the words. "I'm not that. Not for you."

"I have a billion names for you, should you wish to doubt me," Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley says nothing, but Aziraphale can feel the way he sinks into his body, as if suddenly realising that he might be allowed. That he might be so much more than an item of clothing. So much more well-loved than that. The demon pulls himself slowly and carefully into the bend of Aziraphale's neck, scales pressed to skin, until he can feel the flutter of Crowley's tongue in his hair.

"Angel, my angel, m'too drunk for this, I can't - I'll ruin it. Don't let me ruin it."

Aziraphale runs gentle fingers down the length of Crowley's spine, feels him stretch into that slow, affectionate caress.

"Why don't you sleep it off," Aziraphale tells him. "I'll be here when you wake up."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] One More For The Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130726) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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